


Love On The Brain

by midnightwriter



Series: Stay [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Edgar - the cat, Fluff and Angst, Hollywood Actor!Napoleon, It's the 60s, M/M, Romance, They're in love but they are idiots, Writer!Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 02:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9214196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightwriter/pseuds/midnightwriter
Summary: Napoleon is an A-list Hollywood actor. Illya is a writer famous for a series of books about a spy. Life brought them together but they keep on growing apart, only to meet again. 'It's complicated' is an understatement.It's 1963 and this time they meet for the first time after eight years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this story for a long, long time. It was supposed to be an original tale, but Napoleon and Illya were a perfect fit, so now it's done! I truly hope you enjoy this story!
> 
> English isn't my first language and I don't have a beta, so I appreciate if you point mistakes and typos. Also, I didn't have the time to proper proof-reading, sorry!

+1963+

He walked slowly amongst the feeble clarity provided by the night lamps, trying to avoid their light. A cigarette in his mouth, a dark wool fedora on his head and an equally dark coat covering his body made him look much like his most famous character, the most famous spy in the world: Ethan 'The Scorpion' Jones. Not the character who brought the first delight of fame to him, but the one who has been paying all of his very expensive bills for some time now.

He just finished filming the third movie of the series and ran away to New York. He wasn't thinking clear when he decided to come but, if he was being honest with himself, coming back here has been on his mind since he left ten years ago. He did come back occasionally, to participate in films or watch plays; he particularly enjoyed watching West Side Story back in '57. He liked it so much that he tried the part of Tony when the casting for the movie version was happening, unfortunately - or fortunately - he tried the part for The Scorpion first and was chosen.

However, his visits to New York were merely this: visits. He never came here to do what he really wanted to, and it would change today. The light rain was barely wetting his coat, but it was making the weather chilly, so he hugged the tissue against him before looking up at one window that was one among the few still emanating light trough the curtains.

He dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. He gathered whatever courage he still had in his body and walked towards the building, hands in his pockets and heart on his throat, even if his charming and impassive face didn't agree with the agitation inside him.

He knocked on the door of the apartment 4B, it was a simple white door, and Napoleon thought it ugly. He was about to knock again when it was opened by the man inside. Napoleon's heart stopped and ached in a way it hadn't in years. Eight years since he had looked into those icy blue eyes and they still made him react like this. They were as the center of the storm, where everything was cold and calm while the rest of his body was a hurricane. Even though he had learned how to read the other man's body language very well, those eyes always seemed full of mystery and hidden secrets to him.

But not now. Now those eyes were doubting what they were seeing in front of them, wide in surprise, like Napoleon had only seen once, many years ago. He placed his trademark smirk on his face and pretended to be much more confident than he actually felt.

"Hello, Peril."

"You!" The tone was accusatory and scared and surprised and pleased and angry all at once.

"Good to see you, too."

"What are you doing here?"

The door remained open only enough to show Illya's face, an obvious signal that Napoleon wasn't invited to go inside.

"I was in the city," was his lame excuse.

"You have been in the city many times before," Illya chided in response. His English was better now, showing less of his accent - although Napoleon had always enjoyed it.

"Nice to know you've been keeping tabs on me." His smile became more smug and confident at knowing this, even more hopeful.

"Hard to avoid. Your face is always in the papers."

"Do you have a secret collection of all my paper's pictures?" Knowing Illya, he knew the answer would be no, but it was worth the shot.

"Use it to clean my cat's mess."

"Do you even have a cat?" Napoleon inquired, his mind unable to picture the concept of Illya having a pet that wasn't fishes, quiet and with no need for nurturing.

"Yes."

"What's its name?"

"Edgar."

"Is it a black cat?"

The way Illya avoided the answer was enough of an answer to Napoleon. Such a bookworm as always. This little habit of using literature references to name and chose things was how Napoleon discovered that the real author of The Scorpion's books was no one other than Illya - even if he was using the pseudonym Ivan Ardalian -, the man he never learned how to stop loving, even after all this time.

It seemed fitting (and ironic) that Napoleon was chosen to play the part because the man was sure that Ethan Jones had been written based on him. Illya had always used writing as a coping mechanism of sorts, writing things down made him able to gather everything he was feeling in a piece of paper and properly organize and understand it. He always felt too much, whether people could see it or not.

Filming the third movie of the series and reading the sixth book was what gave Napoleon the courage to come here. It was written between the lines, where only he could read, how Illya still felt the same. He was the one that got away from Illya's life and Illya was his. That level of sentiment never really lets you go, it's always there, much like a scar, forever imprinted in you, even after you forgot the reason why you got it in the first place.

"Won't invite me to come in?" He drew his eyebrows up, suggestively.

"No. Go away." He almost closed the door, but Napoleon put his foot in, making impossible for the door to be completely closed.

"C'mon, Illya. It's been years since we last saw each other. Don't you want to catch up?"

"I do not want anything to do with you." He was glaring at the actor without opening the door.

"Your best selling books say otherwise..." He almost purred.

Illya inhaled and Solo could feel the anger emanating from him. Napoleon loved when Illya was in this angry mode, it always made sex rough and memorable. He could still remember one time at a beach - one which he had had to drag Illya, who hated sunny beaches. That probably was his favorite memory from that trip and was among his favorites in general.

"Come in."

He walked in and before he could take a look around the house, Illya pushed him into the wall next to the door, which was easy considering that Illya was taller and surprisingly strong for someone with such a lean frame. He took Napoleon's hat off and threw it up, it was proof of Illya's power over him that he didn't even care about his precious fedora. Illya was holding the brim of his coat and staring intensely into his eyes. He stood there looking for what seemed several minutes but probably were just a few seconds.

Blue against blue, Illya finally closed his eyes and Solo saw hurt in his expression, one that he didn't remember seeing on that face before. Then, the writer was kissing him and he was kissing him back and he was desperate to kiss, to touch, to breathe, to do so much... Yet, he did nothing, just let himself be held by Illya until the man was ready to break them apart. When he eventually did, he stopped grabbing his coat and just stayed there, still looking angry.

"I hate you," he said simply.

"If that's how you treat everyone you hate, I don't mind being hated." The smirk was full on his face again, smugger than before.

He touched Illya's face carefully, doing it so smoothly and with such reverence, as if he thought that anything stronger and faster than that would make the other man run away.

"I've missed you," Solo said softly, barely above a whisper. His thumbs caressing Illya's tense jaw on both sides.

Illya looked away and gave a step behind, putting some distance between them. Napoleon brushed his hair with his fingers, enjoying the instant to breathe deeply and try to calm his heart a bit.

"You taste like cigarette."

"Always did."

"Always hated it. This thing will kill you."

"My doctor says is fine but it's good to know you care."

"Don't care, just hate the taste."

"You could just stop kissing me," he suggested mischievously.

"I could." Illya turned back, walking towards the kitchen. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"I'd love a whiskey, but I know you only keep vodka in your cabinets."

The writer took a bottle of whiskey from his cabinet and looked pointedly at Solo, "Things change," was all he said about the matter.

"Change is good. I love change. Give me the whiskey."

"You haven't changed," Illya says while handing the cup to the other man.

"Of course I have! Look at my fancy handmade Italian suit."

"You got rich, still the same inside this expensive suit." They sit on the comfortable black couch.

The silence spread while they took sips of their drinks, thinking about many things, especially the past, the present, and the future. There were memories haunting them while the overwhelming proximity of the other made them forgive all that was done before. It had always been like this, when they were close, being closer seemed a great option. When they were away, being away seemed possible.

Though they never managed to actually completely forget the other, they could breathe better when they were apart. Or so they thought.

"I have changed, Illya."

The writer looked at Napoleon, recognizing the sincerity that usually came when he used his first name in that particular tone, one that felt exhausted. When they were in college, over ten years ago, that was the tone he always had by the end of the semester. Last time Illya saw him, eight years ago, he hadn't heard that tone, his eyes had shone bright and delighted that day. He had looked younger then.

"Have you?"

"Well, not much. You know how perfection can't become much better." Illya rolled his eyes and Solo laughed mirthlessly. "Maybe is the age, but I do feel different." The honesty was back in his voice, as much honesty as Napoleon Solo could offer anyway.

Being an actor and lying for a living was perfect for him, all smoke and mirrors, all smiles and lies. That's the reason Illya used him as an inspiration for his main character, he thought if anyone could be a spy, that would be him - the man he loved, the liar. He never had the best poker face, he did worse: he manipulated everyone into thinking something and suddenly revealing it to be a well-constructed lie. Illya didn't know if he ever saw anything a hundred percent real from him.

"It's a nice house you have in here, awfully simple, but pretty. Although, you are a bestselling author with three movies adaptations, shouldn't you be, I don't know, less poor?"

Illya could hear the dislike in Napoleon's voice and see it on the way his nose crumpled. He chuckled having imagined many times what he would say if he ever saw his new apartment. It possibly was the first thought when he bought the place, not that he would ever say that to the man, he already had a big enough ego. Illya hated that he considered Solo's opinions even when he wasn't there to deliver it himself, and he might have punched a hole in the wall because of it,  that now existed behind a copy of JMW Turner's Snow Storm: Hannibal and his Army Crossing the Alps on the wall. He'd rather not dwell on the reasons he chose this particular painting.

"I don't expend money on stupid things like you, Solo."

The name felt weird in his mouth after all this time being only a part of his thoughts, never voicing it, afraid that saying it out loud would make his absence more real: No one to answer when he called.

"Always a communist, aren't you?" He laughed and it was so genuine, reminding him of the old days, back in college, where the man was full of laughs like this. Maybe Solo did change by getting older, and perhaps it only meant that now he was as cynic as Illya always have been. Illya loved that laugh and he missed it more than he would ever admit, in fact, the more he thought, the closer he came to the conclusion that he missed everything about Solo. He felt so weak, so powerless against the feeling in his chest.

"What are you doing here, Solo?" He finally asked, watching Napoleon sip his drink and lick his lips before responding.

"I've told you. I've missed you."

"Now? After eight years?"

"No. During this eight years. I never stopped missing you, Illya." The tone of his voice made Illya's insides turn up and down, while simultaneously being squeezed. Funny that he had chosen to never see one of his movies exactly to avoid this sensation, he hoped that one day he'd be able to not feel it when seeing Napoleon.

"You always with the lies. I bet you never spent one night in an empty bed. And weren't you dating that Victoria Vinciguerra girl?"

"It's a stunt. She and I are doing- did a movie together. The idea is to make look like we are close so we can sell more tickets, you know how that works. It's nothing personal, we just look pretty together," he said, dismissing Illya's feelings on the subject.

"Am I supposed to think you never slept with her? Or any of your previous famous girlfriends?"

"Don't be silly, Peril, of course, I slept with them. I love you, but I'm not a priest, you know that."

Napoleon delivered the words with such an easy, so secure of what he was saying as if it was completely obvious and Illya was utterly stupid for not possessing such knowledge. Albeit his words actually made him feel less stupid, at least he now knew that he hadn't been the only one suffering and licking an unhealed wound.

"You love me?" Illya hated how insecure his voice sounded, almost choking on the words.

"Couldn't stop even if I tried, and I have tried. I tried really hard with booze and women and men and everything else that my money could afford - and that is a lot - but nothing can make me forget you, Peril. You've been driving me insane without even being in my life."

"Same goes to you. But you never stopped getting in mine. The books-"

"They're all about me, yeah, I noticed. You wrote six thick books about me-"

"Seven. I'm just finishing the seventh."

"Do I, Jones gets a happy ending?"

"I do not think that would be much realistic."

"Yes, people so rarely get a happy ending in real life, don't they?" He smiled faintly, a glimpse of sadness in those bright blue eyes, usually so joyous and deceiving. Illya decided how the last book of Ethan "The Scorpion" Jones would be right there, seeing those foreign feelings on that familiar face.

"Death is the end, there is not such thing as a happy death."

"Always the optimist." Napoleon raised his empty glass, sarcasm pouring out of his voice.

"Reality is better than fantasizing about things that could be." Illya should know that better than anyone, he had been doing nothing but fantasize since the day Napoleon left for Los Angeles to pursue his dream of becoming a movie star. Leaving Illya behind to pursue his dreams of being a journalist, only to find out he was a much better novelist than a journalist. The lies the paper told weren't as gentle and obvious as the ones in his books.

He released two small books before writing the first one about Ethan Jones, right after Napoleon visited him for the first time, two years after college, after breaking his heart for the second time in this lifetime. The first book from the series wasn't a success, barely paid his bills, but the second was a hit. He changed his publicist after the fiasco of the first to Alexander Waverly, a man who saw the potential of the series and gave the right amount of criticism and encouragement that still were essential for his writing routine.

During these years, he wrote another three books that had nothing to do with the spy and, even if they weren't as successful, managed to pay all of his bills and more. He moved to a bigger apartment that was actually his instead of rented; he bought a car, that wasn't the most expensive, but did his job; he even used his money for useless things like a bottle of whisky that he never opened in all these years, waiting for the secret owner of said bottle.

Napoleon left, yet, he had never been away from Illya's life.

"A realist fiction writer. Only you." The smiled that followed wasn't as bright as his usual smiles whilst truer.

"A lying actor is far more common, I guess."

"We're all liars, darling. Is futile to deny."

"I am not a liar."

"No?" He inquired, fixing his eyes on Illya's, looking for the raw honesty hidden behind the layers of ice.

"No."

"Then why did you kiss me when I got here but have avoided being less than three feet away from me since?"

"I don't trust you."

"You don't lie, you just completely avoids the subject, right?"

"I don't trust you... Or me to not do something stupid."

"Something stupid?"

"..."

Illya's jaw was tense again, his teeth pressed tight against each other. His eyes no longer the center of the storm, but the storm itself. Napoleon wished he could read everything going through those eyes at the moment, however, he did what he did best and challenged Illya to speak the truth.

"Never the brave or the bold one, always the shy little boy who came from Russia and never found his place in this country. You are a liar, Peril, even if you're just lying to yourself."

"Something stupid like having sex and falling in love again and you leaving me in the morning and breaking my heart again. That is stupid and if you came here for this, I cannot give it to you. I already gave you too much, I won't let you take anything else, not even a kiss."

The writer sounded resolute and Napoleon's heart trembled out of rhythm, and it ached in the worst and best of ways. There was the admission he was looking for, although, hearing it didn't make things better, things between them still appeared broken. How do you fix broken glass? And the glass is everywhere around them, spread across the floor and every step they take, it bleeds them, it hurts them.

"You're the one who was taking kisses from me." He joked half-heartedly, attempting humor when he didn't feel any.

"I was taking the kiss you owed me."

"Owed you?"

"Eight years ago, when you left, you said you would be back soon, that I wouldn't even have time to miss your lips because the first time you saw me again, you were going to kiss me. You told me that and I believed, Napoleon. I always believe the lies you tell me." The ice had melted from Illya's eyes and became the blue of sadness. "I'm not a liar, I am just foolish."

"The liar and the fool. It sounds like a great name for a book, doesn't it?"

"I will make sure to suggest that to whoever writes your biography in the future." That made Solo laugh out loud. Yeah, it did sound appropriated.

"Does it mean that you'll be a part of my biography?"

Illya seemed caught by surprise by the question, clearly, he hadn't thought in that manner. Napoleon, on the other side, couldn't imagine his anything without the other man. His bed might have never been empty in all these years, yet, it always felt empty and cold when it wasn't being occupied by the thin and tall frame of Illya Kuryakin.

Illya felt like home in a way that none of the mansions he owned ever could. Illya was the truest piece in his perfect life of lies. Napoleon would wake up and go to sleep thinking about the way the other man would snore softly when sleeping; and how he always would sleep with the cover on and wake up without it; and the way he loved when Napoleon cooked for him, being it a fancy six-dish dinner or pancakes in the morning; and how Illya always complained when Napoleon barged in his bath, but would always kiss him tenderly and wash his hair, joking that he was too short.

Napoleon could never put into words what Illya meant to him, and he had his reasons for not coming back until today, so many petty and selfish reasons, but he had them. He wasn't going to waste his time attempting to explain any of them, tonight he wanted nothing but to forget all of those reasons and everything that was beyond Illya's apartment. Today his body and his time belonged only to the other man, much like his mind and his heart.

And he wasn't going to waste Illya's time by lying to him again and making promises he didn't know if he could keep. He wasn't ready yet to lose everything he had - the fame, the money, his career - in the name of this love. He hoped that one day, however late it might be, he would be ready to do so, but it wasn't now.

"I'm gonna cook for us. What do you have in here?" He said walking to the little kitchen who seemed unused and clean.

"Not much. Eat mostly from the bakery in the next street and the restaurant down the street."

Napoleon made a face, one of even bigger disgust than the one he did when noting his apartment simplicity. Illya's lips curled upwards in reflex. It was exactly like those first days when they met, Napoleon offended that Illya would eat most of his food from cans and offered to cook, to make him taste what he called 'real food'.

Illya never tried to pretend that the food wasn't delicious, Solo could cook like a chef and he always felt so relaxed while cooking, doing with naturalness and prowess, much like he was doing right now. He found Illya's (unused) blue apron and started to put pans and food and silverware on the small table.

Soon, the ingredients were all being perfectly mixed together and the smell was making Illya hungry. He stood by the kitchen door the whole time, observing his movements. Before, Illya observed to try to learn and he always failed, apparently, as Solo used to say, you need love to cook, not just technique. Now, he was observing to burn every detail in his memory.

He knew that Napoleon's lack of response was his way of not lying and not making promises, and Illya wasn't strong enough to say no to that and send him away; he would accept whatever he could get, even if it was just a delicious meal.

Napoleon cooked and set the table, they ate. It was a savory pasta with herbs that the writer didn't even know he had. They drank a drink that the actor made using his vodka and some fruits, it was different from Illya's usual liquor's choice and tasty.

As usual, he let Napoleon do most of the talking - he had always loved the sound and cadence of his voice - while he just made snarky comments at the appropriate moments, being sucked into this bubble they were creating for themselves. When they finished, they washed all that was used while listening to music on the radio.

After it was over, it didn't take long for silence and awkwardness to linger between them, they're were avoiding looking into each other eyes because they already had bared so much of themselves tonight, that it felt like prying when they could see the truths their eyes couldn't conceal.

"So what now?" Napoleon asked, his voice low and sending shivers down Illya's body.

"Break my heart," he replied, certain of this choice. As Tennyson wrote: 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'

Their mouths joined, their bodies glued to one another and their hearts hammering against each other's skin. They fumbled and stumbled into the bedroom, tumbling in bed together and half dressed. Even with the haze Napoleon created on his mind, Illya remembered to lock the bedroom's door,  ensuring that Edgar wouldn't walk in on them.

It was gentler than they had ever been when together and still it felt perfect as always. Their moans and breathing and yelling were a secret language that only they could understand and translate. Later, when the breaths and hearts were steady once more, they laid down in a truthful and quiet moment.

They curled around each other, enjoying the heat and the memories that it brought. Tomorrow would be a new day and it would come anyhow, so there was no use to think about it or the day after tomorrow, it was going to come and they were going to deal with it - together or apart. Now, they let the light rain drift them to sleep with no need for dreaming, for their dream had come true.

**Author's Note:**

> About cigarettes: http://tobaccocontrol.bmj.com/content/21/2/87.full. Yes, doctors were paid to say that cigarettes weren't dangerous and only in the 80s the consumption in the USA dropped.
> 
> The painting Illya has on his wall is about the Napoleonic wars and you can see it here: http://www.tate.org.uk/art/images/work/N/N00/N00490_10.jpg
> 
> I just always wanted for Illya to have a cat because it's cute. No deep meaning behind it.
> 
> Yes, I'm using Rihanna songs for the titles and I'm not sorry for it. XD
> 
> It's a series but I don't know when I'll be able to write more, so if anything doesn't seem properly explained in this story, is probably because I planned to explore it in another story.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! And I'd love to know what you thought of it. =D


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